John Barrister

[Barrister] So: it's a Wednesday night at the pub. Not really the night to go barhopping, true, but Lakeview has an old and celebrated tradition of open mic Wednesdays. And Thursdays, and Sundays. And sometimes Tuesdays and Fridays and Saturdays too, but that's neither here nor there.

Point is, open mic night at the Fox and Feather. Some semi-decent impromptu group is up on stage, jammin' away. There's a fiddle, pipes and a guitar. The music is vaguely celtic-inspired, but largely, to be perfectly honest, open chords and noise. There's enough chatter and ambient noise for it not to matter. At the bar, two men, mid-thirties, both in sweaters and jeans. One has a hard soldierly look about him; the other is larger, broader, thicker, hairier, hunkered over his drink, mostly listening and nodding, sometimes smiling the way one does at a fond memory.

Eventually the first gets up to go. The second stands as well. They shake hands and embrace like brothers -- there's a lot of macho back-pounding, a firm clinch -- and then part. The military man gets his coat from the coat check girl and leaves. His friend stays behind at the bar, and orders one more round for himself.

[Barrister] (very funny *LMAO*)
to Bainbridge, Baldwin

[Bainbridge] (( There's al'ays a Baldwin brother ... ))
to Baldwin, Barrister

[Baldwin] (I saw the B's and couldn't resist popping in with one of my own. LOL)
to Bainbridge, Barrister

[Barrister] (*LOL*)
to Bainbridge, Baldwin

[Baldwin] (Lord, Bainbridge, Baldwin and Barrister sounds like a Law Firm.)
to Bainbridge, Barrister

[Barrister] (it's cuz Barrister is a type of lawyer in the UK! *LOL*)
to Bainbridge, Baldwin

[Bainbridge] A man leaves; the door is open, the air is cold and full of the taste of snow. It is November in Chicago. Enter, Dr. Bainbridge: a woman in her thirties, not old, but hard to place, with a wild fecundity of black curls, which stray from under a cap pulled down low enough to warm her ears. After a glance around, which causes her to smile (warmth, there; her eyes crinkle up; it's almost audible) as she notes the impromptu musicians, she walks to the bar, not far from the man who was left/who stayed behind. She orders herself a drink. "Dust off my tab, Sam." Her accent is crisp, Britonnic; British: precision, but warm and soft. The accent of restraint.

There are people in this world who are shy; there are people in this world who are not. There are people in this world who like people; there are people in this world who do not. Avery is one of the former breed.

And while the 'tender busies himself getting her drink, Avery pays a moment's (real) attention to the musicians. And it's only a matter of time (or, say, posts) before her attention turns from the music to the other patrons who are not playing music.

[Barrister] Let's get this out of the way, shall we? John Barrister is not a man who goes to bars to pick up women. Perhaps he was in his youth, but marriage, or responsibility, or the sheer passage of years have leached that out of him. These days, if he goes to a bar, or a 'pub' as this one liked to call itself, he goes to meet an old friend, or to put up advertisements for one of his many side jobs, or simply for the ambiance.

Still. Enter Avery Bainbridge. Enter her particular brand of warmth, which you can almost smell: like cinnamon, nutmeg, rich chocolate. Enter her accent, which could be cold and precise, but is not. And Barrister turns his head.

"That's a rather lovely accent." As far as lines go, this one is terrible. Then again, there's no such thing, really, as a good line. And Barrister is perhaps not trying to make one. After all, he has his hands wrapped around his heavy stein of some pale-ale or other; they are large hands, coarse, bigboned, dusted with dark hair, and on the left ring finger winks a very evident gold band. "English? London?"

[Bainbridge] And her gaze switches from the musicians to J.B.; she smiles. Again, there's something in that smile. There are little lines around her eyes and, yes, it is the taste of Mexican hot chocolate, and, yes, her eyes are the warmth of honey in hot tea, and it is cold, cold, cold outside, and yes, Avery is a detail-orientated creature, and she notices the wink of gold on J.B.'s left hand. Does not disregard it. Does not stop, however, the smile, which is followed by: well. She takes off her cap, and her hair is in even more tumble disarray, and takes off a glove, and offers J.B. her hand. "It's Avery Bainbridge, and thank you; you've a nice one yourself, but you yanks never seem to believe it."

[Barrister] "Johnathan," he says, and then seems surprised at himself; uncertain why he gave his full name. Perhaps it was some latent poetic instinct to match the syllable count of hers, which her british accent lengthens into three subtle but distinct syllables where his american would slur it into two. "John," he amends, "Barrister." And he shakes her hand. His palm is warm; it bears the callouses of a manual laborer, though the quality of his clothing -- though plain, and neither designer nor tailored by any stretch of the imagination -- says that he has a comfortable nest egg.

He smiles when she compliments his 'accent'. "Thanks," he says, "but you must be mistaken. I'm only speaking English the way it's meant to be spoken." And his smile becomes a grin -- lines at the corners of his eyes, bracketing his mouth. His is not a hollywood 35; his is a weatherworn, outdoorsy 35, and he looks like he's worn his skin well for all thirty-five years of it. "Can I buy you a drink?"

[Bainbridge] "You can;" and, here, spark of humor, a note of the conspiratorial: "And I wouldn't send it back." Beat. "What brings a man like yourself to a pub like the Fox and the Feather?"

[Barrister] Barrister turns to the tender: "It'll be on me," he tests the name -- "Sam." -- and receives a mild glance for it, unimpressed. JB wilts a little. Clearly, two appearances does not make him a regular here, worthy of calling the bartender by name.

Turning back, he offers a rueful little shrug as commentary on the exchange. Answers her, "Just meeting a friend. I was here a few months ago. The open-mic was a bit better that night. A particularly good singer/fiddler, I remember -- a redhead, I think, rather reserved in person."

[Bainbridge] "Really?" Interested. "That might have been my friend Genny; she's fiddles like the devil and lives round here." Avery flicks a glance at Sam, and then -- with the ease of a true regular -- sits on the bar-stool next to J.B.'s, and takes off her coat. The gloves and the hat are on the bar top. And it must be said, Avery does not do it on purpose, it is an intrinsic part of her personality, of who she is and was born to be, and I might run with wild blood, and I might wear horns, but there's this way to how she takes off her coat. Even though she's fully dressed beneath, and there is not a proliferation of bare skin (--it's winter!), it's suggestive. "Do you play?"

[Barrister] "I'm sorry, I forgot the name. I'm not sure it was Jenny, though." Avery strips -- er, that is, Avery removes her coat; J.B's eyes flicker down, ever so briefly, and then as quickly away. To disguise the glance, he looks into his stein, not because he's going to steal another glance later but because he's rather embarrassed to have stolen the first. Really; he's not seventeen anymore. You'd think he'd have the dignity not to gawk at a strange woman in a bar.

"No, no," there's a certain hurry to his reply, as if to gloss over the past minute and a half as quickly as possible, "I don't play. I make." He regains his normal rhythm: slow, deliberate, thoughtful. "String instruments. Mostly cellos and violas. Sometimes, anyway; I'm not very good. It's a hobby. Yourself?"

[Bainbridge] Lo, her drink has arrived, and the lady is drinking whiskey straight-up. As she prepares to take her first sip, she crosses her legs, knees turned toward her new(est) friend. "I do, and a couple of instruments; haven't touched anything but a bodhran lately." Here, whiskey-sip, she closes her eyes, enjoys. Then: "Don't play, as in you choose not to? Or 'don't play', as in you don't know how?"

[Barrister] "A -- sorry, a what?" He doesn't even try to pronounce it again. If he saw it spelled, he'd pronounce it bod-ran. As in, the woman with the hot bod ran down the street. All along, he's sat hunkered over his drink, apart from when he extended his hand to shake. Now he half-turns toward her, slightly. The hand nearer her drops to his thigh. Body language analysts would have a field day. And, "Don't know how. I never learned." Pause. "Why, do you teach?"

[Bainbridge] "A bodhran," she repeats, and there's the intimation (husk: smoke) of a chuckle in the back of her throat. (Cinnamon: nutmeg: to taste. Spice.) "Bow-rahn." Then, another smile; slightly wider. "Why, looking to learn?" There's an invitation, there; but she tones it down in her next line. He's wearing a wedding ring, after all: "There just seems something strange about a fiddle-maker who can't even play the simplest reel."

[Barrister] Looking to learn -- his smile widens with hers. "Maybe," he says. There's warmth in him too; a slow and quiet sort of charisma.

Then, a brief and short inhale, a sip of air that he follows with a sip of his brew. "Well," he says; his eyelashes shade his eyes, and both are dark, and he looks to his wedding ring without quite realizing it, and certainly without trying to hide it, "my wife was a fiddler."

Ah, baggage.

[Bainbridge] Quiet, for a moment. (Baggage. Who doesn't have it?) "That's a handsome ring," she says, and her voice is softer; tea, now, instead of spiced chocolate; caramel tea, perhaps. Or Russian Caravan. "She doesn't play any longer?"

[Barrister] The smile he slants her: it's wry, astute, and it says he knows she's smarter than to need to ask; it says he knows she knows. It also contains something of appreciation -- gratitude for going through the paces anyway.

"My wife passed a year ago." He looks at the ring again after she'd mentioned it, and this time he sees it, "I just wear it to ward off the she-wolves." It's an awkward sort of joke. It's only after that he hears the implications behind it, unintended. He drains his stein of ale and catches the eye of the bartender, nods for a refill.

[Bainbridge] There's this smile he slants her; wry, astute. Attractive. Tug. There's this smile she answers him with, after just a second: slow, and maybe rueful. "Does it work?" And, "That one's on me, Sam."

[Barrister] Another man -- another kinsman, precisely -- might answer this with a bitter private joke of a comment, whether or not the listener were in a position to understand and empathize. Of course not, or what do you think? They're wolves.

JB grins again, brief, a flicker. "So far."

And a glance toward Sam, who most definitely did not give Avery Bainbridge a mild, unimpressed sort of look. Back to her: dark-haired, wildblooded woman: "Equal opportunity imbiber, I see. Excuse me -- "

Alcohol in the blood warms him, and he pulls his sweater off, manages to do it without knocking anyone over. The hour's growing later and the crowd is changing subtly. The musicians are packing it up. The open area that served as a stage has become a dance floor, though no one's brave enough to lead the way just yet. The DJ spins danceable rock, some top 40, some underground, though not so loud that it becomes hard to converse. The clientele is shifting more toward drinking and socializing, and the bar is getting more crowded. Barrister reseats himself, folding his thin sweater under himself for a cushion. He's pulled the barstool a little closer.

"So -- is it a cliche if I ask whether you come here often?"

[Bainbridge] Let's just get this out of the way: Avery? Avery is frank in her appreciation of the male form. Very frank. And appreciative. And she appreciates Johnathan Barrister's, in particular, when he takes off his sweater; takes a good long swallow of her whiskey in a sort of private toast -- or because she wants to order another drink.

"I am delighted to say that, yes, it is a cliche -- and yes, I come around often enough to be a familiar face. Ah, 'scuse me," that, to someone leaning over her to order their drink, bumpage occurs, it happens, and her response is offhand. Then: "Tonight's a bit of a surprise, tell you the truth, but I just had to get away from the bloody Geats."

[Barrister] The sweater off, he's more relaxed, particularly after he undoes his collar and his cuffs, rolls the latter up to his elbows. He notes that the lady has emptied her whiskey, and notes also to put the next round on his tab when she asked for it.

Often enough to be a familiar face, she says -- he laughs, mostly at himself. "Yeah; I should've guessed that. The bartender," and a little gesture to encompass the entire room. The grin that comes out of the laugh is easy, self-deprecating. Something about her frankness, or perhaps that certain sensuality of her being that cannot quite be disguised, but would not be politely reacted to immediately, had intimidated him at first. A little. And Barrister is not a man easily intimidated. Fortunately, that seems to have passed. He's settling into himself, the rhythm of the conversation. "I guess what I'm asking is -- " bumpage occurs, Barrister puts a hand out to steady her, polite, he touches her elbow, contact maintains for a beat longer, more than polite. Then bumpage ends, he draws back, picks up his stein to occupy his hand. Continues, " -- are you planning to come back here?"

She mentions the 'bloody Geats'. He's momentarily confused. "The Geats? Extinct, aren't they? Or is it merely Swedish now?"

[Bainbridge] Her lashes shade her eyes; they're dark, where her eyes aren't; but her eyes are a muddied color, and tea can be clear or opaque, depending on how it was brewed. Then she laughs, casual, easy: husk, again. Her laugh is French cocoa, rich, creamy: tongue, swirl. "With that Beowulf monstrosity out, they're keen to get some new translations and some audio. I've the tongue for it and patience with voice-work, even academic voice-work, but it's like anything, you work too long on a project, and you need to take a break before the project breaks you." A beat, and then back to the original: "I do plan on returning. What about you? Can I look forward to it?"

[Bainbridge] ooc: Erk, not British enough. May I look forward to it.

[Barrister] "Is that what you do? Literature?" A brief scrutiny; a sense that Barrister might see a lot, if he tried. "You don't seem the type."

And, "Yeah." His smiles are easy and plentiful. "I'd like to. Soon."

[Bainbridge] "Really?" That, to the you don't seem the type. "Well, I'm just getting back into the field. Dead languages have been a hobby of mine." Then, she has ordered another drink; she has even glanced at the D.J. Says, "Well, maybe we can coordinate; I've a telly number, excuse me, a phone number if you'd like. In the meantime, can I ask you a favor?"

[Barrister] Really? "Yeah." The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. "Not pretentious enough." It could come off as a blatant, get-in-your-pants compliments. It doesn't. It's not. She's just getting back into the field, she adds, and he laughs -- "Well, be patient. Maybe it'll develop with time."

Another drink, which J.B. nods onto his tab. She offers her number and he shifts on the seat to get out his wallet; feels around for a pen and comes up empty.

A glance as she asks a favor. His eyes are dark. In the right light they're blue, deep dark blue; in this light they are merely dark, possibly brown, possibly black. "Certainly."

[Bainbridge] "Hmm. I don't think I'd peg you as an academic, then, even if you do make violins and cellos in your spare time. Maybe a - " There's a pause. Then: "Well, it'll come to me."

He agrees to a favor; she smiles. Understand this: She isn't overpowering sexuality. She isn't. But, still: How there can be the faintest hint of innuendo, kept (to the American ear) restrained, tame, by the proper British lady accent: precise, crisp, overlaying the smoke. How Avery, who is devourable, whose voice can be hot chocolate or wine, whose eyes can be honey or tea, etc. etc., whose fingernails can probably be almond chips, if needed, and a freckle or two -- they're molasses or paprika or.

"A dance?"

[Barrister] He winces, "Oh, I'm a terrible -- I have absolutely no -- " subsides. A beat. Then he drinks a draught of his brew and stands, hoping no one will steal his sweater, or push it on the floor, or even worse, spill or vomit on it. "All right, one. To humor you."

[Nadia Bashir] His call had been returned and the phone tag continued to play until they could schedule a day and hour that suited both their needs. She scarcely answered the phone, it almost always went to an automated voice mail, that wasn't a recording of her own voice. Unless, of course, he had called the emergency number, and that would result in a conversation entirely different.

Two pm, not a moment earlier, she had arrived to the door of the address she had been given. The weather was far too cold to be wearing skirts, and she opted for another pant suit that cluttered her closet. Black was for evening, so she wore a medium toned gray and a light pale blouse, collar small and short, crisply folded back. Her jacket, however, was heavier and black in colour. She was unbuttoning it as she stepped in the door, hair clipped back and out of her face. Dark green eyes sweeping the interior, looking for someone in particular as she noted other few, but important, details.

[John Barrister] Originally they'd spoken of roastbeef sandwiches at Richmond&Sons, one of the many overpriced, family-run corner delis in their neighborhood. However, this having morphed somehow into lunch rather than a simple sandwich-stand recommendation, John Barrister felt obligated to choose a slightly classier venue. At least, some place with waiters and sit-down tables.

So: the University Cafe. A name at best, because this is neither a cafe in the classical sense of the word, nor your average college dollar joint. It's not exactly old-money elite by any stretch of the imagination, but it's well-kept, clean, airy, modern, with a verve toward fusion cuisine and a polite young waitstaff that practically ran to do one's bidding. The menu is simple, mostly sandwiches and soups in the 12-16$ range, but each entry comes with a small description full of words like "succulent" and "plum wine sauce" and "served on mediterranean-style couscous." In short, it's one of those places that specialized in power lunches and lunch dates, popular amongst the white-collar urbanites.

The restaurant is situated in a building large enough for two stories, but is furnished with only one -- skylights open in the roof to rain light down on the diners. Nadia is directed past a smattering of other patrons to a table for two in the back, near a screen of some long-fronded plant. Barrister, waiting at the table, reading a book to pass the time, looks slightly out of place with his bowling-ball shoulders and his ever-burgeoning five'o'clock shadow. At the same time, he has an ease in such a place that speaks of frequent visits. He looks up as she approaches, and closes his book, marking his place with a slim bookmark. The title reads Peace Like a River; the dustjacket is pale blue and white.

John's chair scrapes out as he stands. At least he had height to go along with his breadth; some six feet four inches of it. Otherwise, he'd have a build most would refer to as a brick shithouse.

"Hello again." All the way here, the bright young waitress has not dared to meet Nadia's eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. Barrister looks her squarely and evenly in the eye; there's genuine friendliness in his handshake. He's exchanged his charcoal running sweats for a dark coat, slacks, crisp white shirt, no tie. It doesn't make him any less hairy, but it at least makes him less out of place. "Please, sit. I went ahead and ordered appetizers," he adds as they seat themselves. "Calamari and a greek salad. Pick whatever else you like."

[Nadia Bashir] The waitress had been, more or less, ignored by the darkly coloured woman. By the time she was at the table, her overcoat was laying over her arm, leaving her in a casual pant-suit. Even with her heels, she wasn't as tall as John, and tilted her head, just slight, to look up at his full height. She shook his hand, casual, brief, and put her jacket over her seat as she replied, "No, that's fine." Her Middle Eastern accent was still evident, but the English remained clear. "Thank you."

"How are you?" She looked at him across the table as she eased into her seat, crossing the length of her legs beneath the tables cloth, one laying over the other at the knee. Her foot tucked closely to her opposite calf, leaving plenty of leg room for the taller of the two of them.

[John Barrister] "As yet un-sued," Barrister replies with a smile. He seats himself a beat after she does, pulling his chair forward again with another unavoidable grate. When he sits back, the joints of the chair creak. Though he'd buttoned his coat out of reflex when he'd stood, he unbuttons it again as he sits. "Yourself? I have to say, you're hard to get ahold of. I think I've had more conversations with your answering machine than with you."

[Nadia Bashir] "Bruin must be behaving." She had said, remembering his dogs name, if only for his fondness of it. They were both going through the same actions, unbuttoning their blazer jackets, while getting themselves settled. She raised her cuffs a little. A gold watch made her left wrist appear dainty under its expensive weight, it's colouring brighter, foreign (and more pure) gold.

Her laugh was soft, almost classified as a chuckle, and she inclined her head, just slight at his remark. "Unfortunate. I am very busy." She raised her eyes from roaming the room to look him over and meet his gaze. "I am glad it has not deterred you."

[John Barrister] "A promise is a promise." Barrister has a warm smile. Nadia's not a foolish woman; she knows the laws of polite company, and that people ought to smile at each other if they're going to hold a friendly conversation. All the same, Barrister has a genuineness about him. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. His brow relaxes. "What is it you do, anyway? I noticed an emergency contact number on the card. Sounds rather dangerous."

[Nadia Bashir] "It's rare for promises to be kept." His genuineness was appreciated, though she didn't smile as much as he.

Brows arching at his question, she appeared a little perplexed at first before waving a hand. "No. It's not a business card." It had no company name after all, just her name. "It's more convenient to have those at hand, should I meet someone like yourself, or other persons of possibility." Sounded a little strange, perhaps. "I believe there should be an emergency contact number for most. I like to believe those I befriend can rely on me should the situation be dire enough."

[John Barrister] "Persons of possibility?" He's still amused -- though now, a suspicion has begun to niggle at the back of his mind. "What sort of possibility?"

The conversation is briefly interrupted: the waitress arrives with the appetizers, and then takes their order. John orders his roast beef sandwich, though here it's called a sliced top sirloin roast on focaccia with braised onions and bleu cheese, garnished with ... blahblahblah. Barrister still calls it what it is: "I'll have the roast beef sandwich. Soup on the side. What's today's special? Oh, no, I'll just have the french onion. Just water. No, wait -- the mango iced tea sounds good. Thanks."

After the waitress departs with their orders and their menus, Barrister turns his attention back to the woman. "Persons of possibility," he prompts.

[Nadia Bashir] Her own order consisted of fish, of all things, and salad with a bottled water. She watched the waitress depart before she returned to their conversation, already prompted before she could begin. This cause a smile, as small as it was, and a glitter of amusement in her dark foliage gaze. "There are endless possibilities where you travel. A person you meet today could be your boss tomorrow." It was all about networking, surely, with his stature, he could understand it. Unless she presumed much of this man before her, which wasn't that likely, considering.

[John Barrister] Barrister raises a dark eyebrow. They're just shy of bushy, though they are certainly bold: straight across over each eye. The eyes themselves are dark as well, but in this light she can see they're blue, not black.

"And you expect situations might swiftly grow so dire that your future boss may need to call you and actually get ahold of you?" The corners of his mouth lift. "You're rather unusual, Nadia."

[Nadia Bashir] Leaning gently into the table, bringing her own gaze closer to his, she murmured clearly, "It was an example, John." Returning his smile, even if it was small, twisting the corners of her rather full mouth, she eased back into her chair. It was her turn to talk.

"Tell me this." She began, "Did you come to this luncheon to be polite or was there another motivation?" Simply direct, though it wasn't unpleasantly said. Her curiousness was obvious.

[John Barrister] Now the other eyebrow goes up. Barrister laughs -- a short, quiet one, almost under his breath. Then he composes himself.

"Are you asking if I'm trying to pick you up?"

[Nadia Bashir] "Is that such an amusing thought?" She tilted her head to one side, regarding him fully and without the shared laughter. It's a possibility that she was offended, her gaze was a little sharper, darker. Perhaps he'd notice how she's sitting particularly still at that current moment, all of her attention on him.

[John Barrister] "I'm sorry," Barrister says immediately, perceiving the change in her and not at all the type who would enjoy snubbing a woman, "I don't mean to offend. You're a very attractive woman. But, no, you needn't worry. I wasn't trying to pick you up." He smiles again, half-wry, spreads his hands. "No ulterior motives."

[Nadia Bashir] "The thought didn't offend. I'm curious to why you would think it funny." Her eyes dropped to watch the way his mouth curved into another smile. Debating whether she liked it or not, she watched for several heartbeats later, looking over his bone structure before meeting his eyes again. "There are other motives than trying to bed someone, John." Now she smiles, a light gesture, but at least it reaches her eyes.

[John Barrister] "I laughed," he replies wryly, "because I was imagining you coming to lunch dreading a pass."

While they speak, he serves himself from the shared salad, picks a few calamari rings from the platter. He has a rough look about him, big knuckles and coarse hands, a jaw that always looks unshaven; it's wholly at odds with his table manners, which are surprisingly elegant. He keeps his elbows tucked in, his knife always in the right hand and his fork always in the left.

"Yes," he agrees, "but I assure you, I have no ulterior motives whatsoever. Except maybe to make a friend."

[Nadia Bashir] Dropping her gaze to watch the way he served himself, how he held his utensils and general table manners, she let the conversation dry up. Reaching for her bottle, she opened it and poured water into her glass, stopping when it was three quarters level. Her bottle, recapped, was set to the side and traded for the glass itself.

"Are you interested in art, history, John?" A simply out of the blue question.

She took a sip from her glass, then another that had more to do with drinking than merely tasting. Holding it in hand, cradled in her fingertips, she continued to watch him eat, her gaze flicking to watch his movements. Plate to mouth.

[John Barrister] One might be discomfited by the intent way this strange, desert-eyed woman watched one's every motion. If Barrister was uncomfortable, he doesn't show it. There's an immense, quiet confidence about him; it underlies everything he does, up to and including his unfailing courtesy and genuine goodness of nature. Perhaps there's some truth to the adage that it takes more courage to be kind than cruel.

"History, yes. Art, depends on the type." He eats another forkful of salad, chews, swallows before continuing. "Why do you ask? Let me guess -- you're a hunter of exotic artifacts?"

[Nadia Bashir] "It would be ... cliche, wouldn't it?" With an air of amusement she set down her glass and began to serve some food onto her own plate, little of it, but something to make her plate look colourful and enough not to offend his choice of meal. "Most of those artifacts come from markets of my home town, or not far. I would not be much of a hunter, if that were the case."

Picking up a fork, she rolled some lettuce and stabbed it gently. "What is it, about History, that you like? Something must draw you to it. Much like there is a reason, beyond keeping yourself in physical fitness, that makes you run every night."

[John Barrister] "You're an antiques dealer, then." He looks pleased with this, somehow. "I do a little of that myself. Not so highbrow, though."

She asks him what he likes about history, and he appears to give this genuine thought -- narrowing his eyes into the distance, leaning back in the trendy little woven basket chair, because apparently people nowadays were too hip to eat in proper dining chairs. His limbs are long enough that his hand easily reaches the table without stretching. He holds his mango iced tea and swirls it around unconsciously, the way one might a good wine.

"I don't know," he says finally. "The sense of time, maybe, and what's come before. The movements of mankind, the rises and the falls."

[Nadia Bashir] While he spoke, she ate. She took her time with it, picking more than she devoured. Hunger wasn't a motivating factor at the moment. Her gaze moved from her plate up to him, small flickers to the former, as she ate small bites. "I like them for the stories. The lessons learned, morals to be followed, mistakes made." Eating some calamari, she waited until she had swallowed before continuing, "Have you heard anything of Mythology that you may like? Gods and Goddesses. They fill our history books with names and tales." The more she spoke, the more he became accustomed to her accent, the easier her educated English sounded.

[John Barrister] This time the smile has something a little ironic in it. He studies her for a moment, as though trying to make up his mind about something.

He's spared the necessity to answer immediately. The waitress arrives again with their entrees, and sets them down in front of them. She asks them if they'd like anything more. Though she's been trained to smile brightly at everyone at a table, she converses largely with Barrister. One might think it were a matter of attraction, flirtation, but no: whenever she looks at Nadia, there's something like worry on her face, so mild that she likely doesn't even register it herself.

Assured of their satisfaction with the meal, she departs. Barrister is left alone with Nadia again, and he swallows a mouthful of iced tea before he replies -- meanwhile drawing the toothpick out of the sandwich.

"I've always liked history more than myth, artifacts more than stories. But I suppose I'm partial toward Norse myth." He smiles a little; this is the first time it's been anything but genuine. This smile is a little calculated; it means something. "It runs in the family, I guess."

[Nadia Bashir] Tempted to give the waitress a little more to sweat about, Nadia had taken to watching the woman as she was so obviously uncomfortable. She could almost smell the changes in the air around her, the lingering emotions of others that prickled along her skin and stimulated her senses. Thankfully they were sitting far beyond the rest, and the foliage about them was strong enough in smell to be a distraction.

"I thought as much." She had said, and stated, "Artifacts are nothing without their story." before she picked up her fork and began to cut her moist fish, adding some salad to her fork. The two textures, soft and crisp, mixed well in her mouth.

[John Barrister] "What about you?" He lays aside his utensils at last, picking the sandwich up in his big hands. "Have an interest in myth, history, artifacts -- stories?"

[Nadia Bashir] "All." She said, having noted how big his hands were last time they had met, and just how hairy he was. It was a prime reason for her questioning, that and his little tell tale signs, in particularly the way her body responded to his, that had her suspicions now confirmed. Her fish was favoured over her salad and she didn't touch the tomatoes on her plate, pushing them to one side with her fork, even to the point of scraping off the tomato seeds that was on some of her other raw vegies.

[John Barrister] He laughs a little again, a hint awkward. "Not much of a conversationalist, huh. Should I leave you be, stop prying?"

[Nadia Bashir] Looking up from where she was fussing with her food, she shook her head and set down her utensils. "No, please." She had been distracted. "Ask what it is you would like." Pause, she went back to his question. "I enjoy learning about the world and everything in it. I would say as far as outside of our world, but there is not much known of the universe."

Picking up her glass, she washed away the taste of fish from her tongue and teeth with several sips. Gazes meeting again, or at least hers lifts to his, she continued, "Mythology, culture, religion, in many parts of the world have very similar ideals and icons. Many of them incorporate animals with men and women, have tales where such creatures would consummate, or Gods of either gender being several species simultaneously." Giving a little shrug of her shoulder, she had paused her words, considered him, them, "I find the ideas intriguing, now that humankind dominant over every other creature, including the very ground that keeps us dependent on it. The irony is dry."

[John Barrister] Were she talking to a human, his eyes might glaze over now. He might smile and nod, but he wouldn't pay any attention at all. Such things are not part of the world a human -- a human like JB, anyway -- cares about.

Barrister, however: he listens. Attentively. His eyes are fast on her, and when she finishes, a pregnant silence falls.

Then he sets the sandwich down. Wipes his hands on the napkin, and quite deliberately, draws his wedding ring off his finger.

"Since you sound like a bit of an aficionado of myth and culture, maybe you can help me decipher something. My wife and I bought our rings from a private small-volume dealer." The story here doesn't matter; it's just something to say, to mask things for public view. It's not true, anyway. "Anyway, my ring has this little etching on the inside. Can you see it? Maybe you've seen it before. I wonder if you know what it means."

He holds the ring out for her view. On the inside, against the skin, is of course a very small, very carefully carven Fenrir glyph.

All the while, Barrister watches her face like a hawk.

[Nadia Bashir] Picking up her napkin, she cleans her hands, not that they were dirty anyway, and takes the offered ring in her fingertips. She tilts it to the light, her eyes narrowing a little as she focuses on the inscription. Slowly, she smiled and further inspected the ring itself, its weight, value, purity. "I thought as much." Says the stranger.

Leaving the ring in her pale palm, compared to the rest of her skin, she offered it out to him across the table. "It's a symbol of strength and honour." Pause. "Loyalty." Another pause. "Which is, perhaps, why its fitting for the symbol of the ring." They both knew, she knew, that he knew. It doesn't help him discern anything about her though.

[John Barrister] "Huh," the sound is faint, amused. "Here I always thought it was just a tribal design."

He never quite lets the ring go. He doesn't pull it away when she touches it, but once she's finished he slips it back on his finger. His hand had felt briefly naked without it. When it rests again at the base of his fourth finger, he gives it a turn, and then picks his sandwich up again.

[Nadia Bashir] "Nothing is ever just." Done with her meal, she picks up her glass of water again, watching him. "A design is always based on a concept." Frowning for a moment, she put down her glass and slowly stood.

"Please excuse me."

The vibration in her pant pocket was removed as she stepped a foot or two from the table and put a small cell to her ear. She didn't speak English. It was an obvious Middle Eastern language, most likely some dialect of Arabic. The call was short, her mood changed with a minor irritation.

She returned to the table with a tight smile. "John, I'm afraid that an emergency needs attendance." Removing her jacket from the table she lay it over her arm. "See? It's always a good idea to have such a contact." Phone back in her pocket, she set her gaze on him. "Please, let me buy you dinner sometime. It may be a little more convenient than meeting midday."

[John Barrister] He doesn't rise when she gets up to take the call, but he does when it becomes apparent she won't be sitting again.

"I can do better than that. Your interest in myths, legend and histories -- why don't we meet at the Museum of Anthropology? I'll call you, set up a time."

[Nadia Bashir] Her smile is broad, delighted and she inclines her head. "I would like that."

"Thank you."

Gesturing to the table, "Please, sit, enjoy, and take care John."

With another smile, she had turned and left the restaurant. Not before she, without him able to complain, stopped and paid for their tab on the way out. Her jacket was thrown on at a pause at the door, before she disappeared onto the day lit street.

[John Barrister] Lakeview's a pretty nice neighborhood, see. It's all oak-lined streets and quaint little houses; stately old manors and turn-of-the-century brownstones. What commercialization there is is restricted to a few european-style streets, with brick apartments sitting atop bakeries and boutiques, cafes and corner stores. There are perhaps three streets altogether with traffic lights. The rest are stop signs and pedestrian crosswalks.

This time of night, it's a quiet neighborhood. Few cars pass on the streets. All the shops are closed, and most the houses are dark. The wind stirs what few leaves remain on the trees, and occasionally one falls with a soft, papery sigh.

It's cold in Chicago now. Barrister can see his breath, white in the air. It'd be too cold to stand about in sweats and a t-shirt, but it's just perfect for a brisk run. He likes running at this time of night: the city quiet, the streets empty, the stoplights flashing yellow, yellow, yellow. There are few other joggers to run into, which Barrister doesn't mind one way or the other. More importantly, there are few other dogs to run into, which Barrister is deeply thankful for. It affords him a chance to let Bruin off the leash. The dog roams the shrubs and the lawns while Barrister runs the streets.

And he runs. Not a jog but true running, the sort that indicates hard physical conditioning in the past; the sort that says he knows what he's about. He's had his share of competitive athletics or simple, grueling physical labor. His strides are long and confident, steady. His breathing is elevated, fast and harsh, but even and ungasping; his heartrate a steady, rapid thunder. It's an equilibrated state of being that wolves and distance runners knew well -- a sort of amped-up homeostasis, faster and harder and more challenging, but no less stable than the resting.

[Nadia Bashir] Dressed in warm slacks, that belonged to a smart pant-suit, black, a white blouse, and a long, expensive trench coat, her heels would leave a quiet click on the concrete when she walked. Hair up, leaves her face to the chill of the air, making the dark brown cold to the touch. She had been sitting, just there on a bench by the darkened lake's view, perhaps enjoying the surroundings that the rich suburbia held. A place that put a price on the beauty of site, where they had ripped up nature and patched her up with cement, pierced her with metal and plastic tubes, as though a doctors experiment.

The dog, the one running free, had ripped her from whatever morbid thoughts had inflicted her mind. Its deep growl had caused the hairs on her neck to stand on end. When it increased further, the depth of it, it made her lip twitch. No smile met it, as she turned from her chair, rising up to stand at her average height, 5.7, maybe 8". She looked down at the animal. Another twitch of her upper lip had her nose curling back, wrinkling across the middle. Fingers curled at her side, loosely, flexing. The beginnings of white was seen through the parting of her lips. Her sneer at the aggressive domestic.

[John Barrister] Barrister's usually a lot more vigilant during the day. During the day, kids popped out of school buses at the drop of a hat. Young moms came out of groceries stores, yapping on their cell phones. Affluent twentysomethings windowshopped and balanced their little dogs in their purses. During the day, Barrister would never let Bruin off the leash, and he'd spot trouble a block away.

At night, it's different: who the hell sits on a bench in the middle of nowhere at 12:35am? Barrister doesn't think to look for company, and lets his attention wander -- looks out across the lake while the hound roams free. Most times he lags behind, investigating this scent or that with utmost, voluptuous care, only to race after his master in a pitter-patter of running paws when he finds himself too far away. Once in a while, though, the dog gets ahead of the master.

It's the growl that snaps Barrister's attention back to the path. Mothers know their babies' cries; dog owners know exactly what their dogs sound like. "Shit," is out his mouth almost before he thinks -- already being at a run, he pushes it to a sprint to catch up with his errant, unfriendly hound. "Don't touch him!" It's the sort of unbridled panic that only the owner of a mean dog would know. "Keep your hands in your pockets and don't try to pet him. Hey, Bruin! Here, boy!"

The dog -- a doleful-faced, floppy-eared mutt of a hound -- responds by letting loose a string of baying barks. His hackles are up. His tail lashes from side to side. He's agitated, nervous; he means business, even if the strange lady scares the crap out of him.

[Nadia Bashir] Pet him? She had heard him. Heard his feet before he had gotten far enough to beg for his dog to come. But she kept her eyes trained on the hound, staring him in the eye. Unmoving, save for the brief bare of her teeth. it could have been a smile, a grin. It was a silent growl of her own. Challenging. She was the dominant here. She'd show him, the mongrel, should the little pup want to launch an attack. John wasn't much of a concern. The strange lady, she didn't seem to be frightened in the least, but there was a thick tension that was hard to shift even by a lake breeze.

[John Barrister] Most dogs would be cowed by such a stare. Some dogs, however - the exceptionally brave or exceptionally dumb (and it's hard to say which the hound was) - take it as a threat that had to be answered with force. Bruin gets tenser and tenser, his lean, shortcoated body drawing in on itself until it seemed inevitable that he was going to go for the jugular and end up dead on the ground.

But just as he starts to explode forward, Barrister swoops in behind him and grabs him the way you might grab a drunken barfighter. One forearm across the dog's neck, the other around his chest, Barrister grabs double-handfuls of the hound's short stiff fur and bodily drags him back. Locks the growling hound between his knees and snaps the leash back on.

A deep breath of relief. Or maybe he was just catching his breath, period, after having run miles and miles and then participating in an impromptu hundred-meter dash. He urges Bruin back, and Bruin shows his displeasure by lashing his head from side to side, twisting, and generally trying to get free before finally resigning himself to panting balefully by his side.

Both man and hound are panting now, white puffs of steam unfurling into the air. Barrister wipes sweat off his brow. "Sorry. Sorry about that. He's really quite friendly once you get to know him. Doesn't do well with strangers, though." A sort of too-casual, nervous laugh: the please, god, please don't let me get sued sort of laugh that owners of mean dogs would recognize.

Then, something that sets this man apart from a thousand others who might have behaved similarly in such a situation: Barrister gets ahold of himself. Consciously, deliberately. Takes a deep breath, and thereafter breathes quietly through his nose. His charcoal sweatpants are wet at the cuffs from running through the wet streets. His t-shirt sticks to him front and back, and what isn't wet with gutter-water or sweat is damp with the endless, misty rain. Still, for all that, there's a great self-mastery about him. He wipes his brow off again, looks at his hands, and makes a sort of apologetic gesture that excuses his lack of handshaking.

"This is Bruin." Dog lovers always introduced their dogs first.

[Nadia Bashir] Those things came in handy, and not just for wayward dogs. She had eyed the leash as it was snapped on to the pup, and had watched further as it thrashed around to free itself. When it stilled, gave in, submitted, she raised her gaze to look upon the owner. She took him in. His appearance was absorbed in a slow sweep of her intensified gaze. Not bad, his physical appearance. Handsome. Strong. Bred.

He opened his mouth, and she looked up from where she was looking at his wet pants, ankles, to meet his gaze. She didn't look at the introduced dog, well aware of what it looked like and where it was standing, panting by the side of his master. When she spoke, it was with an accent from the Middle East, though her English was well taught, educated. "I know a place where Bruin is the name of a best served dish." She had offered in turn. The woman was probably the likes to sue.

[John Barrister] To be openly stared at and quantified according to one's physical parameters is usually a woman's province. Not fair, not cool, not equal -- but true. For a man to truly be on the end of an objectifying scrutiny is an unusual experience. Most either preen or wilt, grow aggressive or shy.

Barrister is perhaps a little put off by her manner, but other than a slight shifting of his balance between his feet, he holds up well enough. One weird lady, that was for sure: sitting out here in the middle of the night, staring down a mean dog, and then staring up its owner. Maybe she was some sort of Arab terrorist waiting to suicide bomb the Sears Tower -- but no, that was prejudicial and unkind, and Barrister tried not to be either.

The comment might be meant to cause a wince. Barrister chuckles instead, though one might not blame him for the chuckle being not so amused as it could've been. "Well, I was aiming more for the 'bear' definition. When he was a puppy he looked a bit like one. Snub nose. Chubby legs." Barrister trails off, perhaps realizing casual conversation was not up the woman's alley.

His breathing's almost back to resting rate. His damp clothes are rapidly becoming cold. Barrister's a big man, well over six feet, long in the limbs, broad through the shoulder and thick in the chest. He doesn't lose heat as fast as a small person would. Even so, it's in the forties, and he was in single layers. He wraps the leash around his fist once more -- in the light of the path lamps, a wedding ring gleams on his fourth finger. His hands are big and strong, and liberally dusted with coarse dark hair. As are his forearms. And his chest, from what can be seen at the collar. And possibly every last square inch that hair could possibly grow from, for that matter. He takes care of himself and how he looks, but even in the poor lighting, one can see the heavy beard shadow covering the whole of his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, contiguous with the hair at his temples on one end, the hair on his chest at the other. Wolf-blooded, indeed: any more hair, any less attention to personal grooming and he'd be ripe for a B-movie werewolf.

"Well," he says, after a short pause in the conversation, "if you're all right ... " it was the open-ended statement that, in a normal meeting between human strangers, predicated a departure.

[Nadia Bashir] Quite the contrary, it seemed to relax her that he had laughed, even if somewhat dryly, at her remark about his dog. At least he was not unhealthy attached to such an animal. This was a good sign. It was obvious John was affectionate towards it. A soft side not usually displayed unless used in ploy to capture a woman with their animals cuteness factor. The weird lady wasn't interested in such schemes and doubted they applied in this situation.

"Yes, I am sure it did." She had replied, in reference to the dog looking like a bear. "Though, perhaps, not as fierce." Her gaze flicked to the dog, to the rope and metal around its neck. Sometimes she felt like that. One wouldn't think so, not with the confidence she held in the poise in her stature.

"Yes." At his assessment of whether she was fine or not. "And do excuse my comment, it was a little harsher than intended. " She wouldn't stop him from leaving, they were both out for their own reasons afterall. He was obviously busy, running. And she... well..

[John Barrister] "He's a big softie," John says, and scruffs the hound's head with rough affection. The hound merely seems annoyed by this interruption of his distrusting stare, and shakes his floppy ears loudly. There are people dogs, and then there are dogs like Bruin: sharp, aggressive, protective, independent. And grumpy.

John takes a few steps back and lets Bruin's leash out a little. Then the woman apologizes -- sort of -- and the decency in Barrister compels him to stay a little longer. "That's all right," he replies. Some men would say this without meaning it. Barrister has a sincerity about him; when he says it, it's believable. "I don't blame you for being upset. Here you are enjoying a quiet evening and along comes mad-dog Bruin. Frankly, I thought you were about to sue me."

When Barrister smiles, his face creases with laugh lines. Night obscures age, but from his carriage and demeanor, one might guess him to be in his mid-30s; a touch older than the younglings dashing around Chicago's werewolf landscape. It doesn't seem to bother him. He doesn't try to compensate -- he looks his age, acts it, dresses it. His ties with Chicago's werewolf circles aren't that close, anyway.

"I'm John, by the way," he adds. He wipes his hand on the side of his sweatpants and holds it out to her. It's big and rough, toughened from tool use and manual labor. "I live around here. Run this way every night. Don't think I've seen you, though. Or Bruin, for that matter." The last is wry.

[Nadia Bashir] Suing him? No. Killing his dog, and feeding it to its owner, different story altogether. She continued to watch him, liking the way he spoke, his animated ways. The man had style enough to capture her attention, few had. Chicago didn't seem to have personalities, many people worthwhile. Style meant much from her home country, in particularly the caste in which she had been raised. His decency was appreciated.

She stepped forth, to take his hand and shake it with her own. Gentle side of a business shake, formal nonetheless. Bruin was watched from the corner of her eye, no doubt the animal became agitated as a full bred Garou came close to his Master. It wasn't as though she was some flimsy Ragabash either. There was a heat to her, it was Luna's phase that had that Rage coursing veins as much as the hearts blood. But in the same token, this woman had control. Power.

"Nadia." She had said, "It's a pleasure to meet you Bruin."

"And you would not have seen me. I do not come here frequently. But this occasion has me pleasantly surprised." Her smile was slow, but warm enough to be pleasant. Dark green eyes, deep forest greens, had looked over his face and searched his gaze when she was close enough, and shifted to look at the antsy dog as she took a single step back.

[Nadia Bashir] (bruin, John. OMG, his love for the dog is infectious.)

[John Barrister] When you've lived a long time with a non-too-friendly dog, you pick up little tricks and instincts. Where another would simply walk forward to close the distance, John leans forward, putting one foot forward to carry his weight. Meanwhile, the other leg barricades the dog back, and the other hand loops the leash several times around it in a few easy turns of the wrist, holding Bruin safely out of biting range.

He does it all thoughtlessly, without preparation, without hesitation. You live, your dog almost bites the nose off some cute blonde and her 6 year old daughter at the park on a warm spring afternoon -- you learn.

"It's nice to meet you too, Nadia." He lets go her hand. Gentle side of a business shake, indeed. Warm, but polite, taking no liberties. "Bit odd, though, this time of night." He smiles as he says this; honest, but not intending rudeness.

Stepping back, he lets Bruin's lead out again, and the subaudible growl subsides. The dog stares at the Garou a little longer, sensing what his master cannot (or perhaps has become so inured to that he ignores it subconsciously) and becoming all the more irritable for it. Then, uneasy, the hound looks away, tugs at his leash, investigates a nearby bush and defiantly leaves his scent.

[Nadia Bashir] "It is." She had agreed, and had taken a casual stance a polite speaking distance away. One hand slipped into her jacket pocket, not in a slouching manner, her back was straight. The black woman wasn't some gangster on the street. A night Owl, at the worst. Well, not the worst but...

"Why are you out running this late, and in the cold?" Speaking clearly, but quietly, she had spoken thoughts aloud. "There are gyms open here, isn't there?" At least in most rich estates they had private gyms in apartment buildings. "It would be warmer. Safer."

Strange, perhaps, that a woman would be offering sound advice on after hour walks in the streets, wandering or running in the darkness. Or that, she, smaller than he, would be concerned about a larger mans well being. Or that of a strangers.

The dog was all but forgotten. No threat. No interest.

[John Barrister] Barrister had long since concluded Nadia wasn't some gangster-bitch. He was fairly certain she wasn't looking to blow up the Sears Tower, either. Night owl seemed the most likely; perhaps some sort of artist, some writer, Alice Walker-type, Gertrude Stein-type, who sought inspiration in the night. Stranger things have happened.

"Can't bring the pooch to a gym," John notes wryly, tipping his head toward the exploring hound. "Anyway, Lakeview's pretty safe. Do you live around here?"

[Nadia Bashir] "Money can buy much." She had replied, referring to the pooch problem in gyms. They could use treadmills too, but there was the whole natural environment thing. As much as she despised the aggressive dog wandering around nearby, hooked on its line, she wouldn't want to subject it to a life in those concrete walls.

At the mention of the lake, she had glanced over to where the water was, or rather, the darkness remained. The smell of it, the dew on the grass, the crisp scent of foliage and leaves, all far better to her senses that wet dog hair nearby. Perhaps though, not as good as the damp smell of masculine sweat. Also a reason why her head had turned, to maintain a proper demeanor before a human.

"I live nearby, yes. A small distance walk." Glancing to him, looking him briefly from head to toe and back, she added, "It's pleasant enough. You're local."

[John Barrister] "Well, truth be told, I prefer the streets. Not as good on the joints, maybe," a smile, "but a little more interesting."

Local, she calls him. His smile turns a little ironic. "You could say that. I've lived here a good many years. Moved away for a while, though. Just came back, couple months ago. I live over on Ash," the sort of neighborly detail one might share with a polite lady one meets while jogging, but not nearly enough to actually find him if said polite lady turned out to be deeply weird indeed, and prone to stalking. At least, it wouldn't be enough if she weren't a Garou. But that's one detail lost to him, for the now.

"You're just moved in, I'm guessing. Have you tried the sandwiches at Richmond & Sons? The corner deli on Haymarket and Sixth? Pretty good, if you like roast beef."

[Nadia Bashir] He made her smile, it came easily, despite her nature and the pull of Luna on her skin. "The beach. Sand is best. It would help with balance." He could think that was a mention on physical self, many might take it like that, but she merely meant it in general.

His suggestion made dark brows rise over forest eyes, where a spark of interest had formed. "Richmond and Sons? I will have to have lunch there." She moved her gaze downward, searching the hand that had glinted with the band. "I would invite you..." The but was left unsaid, as she looked back up to meet his gaze with a small smile, and a appreciation.

[John Barrister] He's worn the ring long enough that it's a part of him that he doesn't even think about anymore. Her eyes seek it out and he's momentarily puzzled; looks down with her. At first he sees only his own hand, big and hairy, knotted with tendons and veins. Then the penny drops. "Ah." Awkward; the first time he's truly so, even counting the near-accident with the dog. His hands come together. He turns the ring on his finger as he speaks, an absent gesture to occupy his hands. "My wife, she's -- passed on. Last year." He smiles; it's not so easy as the previous smiles, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes are as much wince as humor. "I don't think she would've minded a friendly lunch, though."

There's a subtle maneuvering in the words: the truth about the wife, the fond hint of her personality, the 'friendly' before the lunch. Those trueborn to the Fenrir might've missed it altogether, or at least never thought to employ such; the Garou of the Fenrir, after all, were a direct, no-nonsense bunch. Truth be told, there's little in the way of guile in Barrister, either. It wasn't his style. Still, living one's life straddling the line between Garou and human, one's bound to pick up some of the unwritten laws of humanity. Brute frankness is rarely considered a quality amongst the mundane.

His ringed hand closes into a loose fist. After a moment, he lowers it to his side, and the leash-loop drops from his wrist into his waiting palm.

"I'm free for lunch on Thursdays and most weekends. Not this Thursday of course; Thanksgiving. But give me your number, and we'll grab a bite sometime."

[Nadia Bashir] She listened, her head tilting slightly to one side. Animated with expressions, he would see the raise and fall of her brows, the consideration, the sympathy, perhaps. But all in all, it remained a polite and pleasant expression. Nodding to his words, an inclination of her head more so, she had given the briefest of smiles at his fond words. "I am sorry for the loss." She says, appropriately, and leaves it at that. They were strangers and she did not broach the topic further.

Drawing her hand from her pocket, she shifted her jacket to slide her hand inside her pant pocket instead. She looked away from him, down to the wallet she had removed, and began to open it. From within she removed a card, white with black text. A crisp business card was handed over, offered from between her fingertips of manicured nails, though it failed to mention any business company, or the woman's title.

Nadia Bashir
Contact: 555-555-555
Emergency contact: 434-434-434

"Please take it and call me should you like a lunch." Dinner was far more formal, perhaps a little too personal for this particular arrangement. The lunch would do, and he had walked himself into the situation by suggesting the Deli in the first place.

[John Barrister] Another man might brush off the condolences. John: he gives her a heartfelt smile. "Thank you," he says, meaning it. It's not the thank-you of a man who truly believed a perfect stranger could be truly sorry for his loss. He's not naive. He's thanking her for something else entirely -- for being polite enough to offer condolences. That meant something, in and of itself.

The Garou often considered petty politenesses a deception. Barrister considers them courtesy, and Barrister believes fervently in courtesy.

He takes her card. "I didn't bring mine with me," he says apologetically, "but I'll call you tomorrow, so you'll have my number. Pencil me in for next Thursday, ok?" Bruin has long since lost interest: he's reclining on the ground, nodding off despite the cold. Barrister brings the hound back to his feet with a gentle twitch of the leash, a soft whistle. "It was nice meeting you, Nadia."

[John Barrister] (too many truly's. delete that first one. *LOL*)

[Nadia Bashir] Giving a small shake of her head, at his mention of lack of card, it was a dismissive motion. "Worry not. I will know if you are interested should you call, and should you not, it will speak for itself." She had said, smiling towards the end, just with a tinge of a smirk at the tips. It was true, she was blatant about it. People were rude, quite often. If its black, call it black.

"Enjoy the rest of the evening." She had said, already returning her wallet towards her pocket without looking. In fact, she gave a glance to the dog as it moved. "And worry not of others. I do not believe many are out, and if they are, I doubt them vulnerable of your little bear."

[John Barrister] Barrister laughs a little, as much out of humor as out of appreciation for the odd music of her speech and syntax. Desert-born, to be sure, though her accent was slight and her grammar perfect.

"You have a good one too, Nadia. C'mon, Bruin."

The first few steps are slow, a jog. Soon thereafter his stride lengthens. Bruin goes from a trot to a canter, mouth dropping open, big pink tongue lolling out. Man and dog run down the path, past the lamps which attract insects in summer, but are now bare as the trees with the encroaching winter. Soon enough, they're gone behind a copse of trees, leaving the Shadow Lord to her own thoughts.

[Nadia Bashir] "Good night." She had said, and stood there to watch them depart. When they had reached their stride, and Bruin is canter, her heels clipped the pavement in the same direction that they were heading. They would be long gone by the time she would get to her destination. Her stroll was slow and leisurely, hands in pockets. Occasionally her head would tilt, catch a scent, or seek a particular smell, but for the most part she mined her own business.

[J.B.] It's a late night, and a quiet night at JB's pawn shop. The man himself is outside. He's surrounded by cats. Mangy, straggly stray cats. He has a can opener in one hand, a stack of cat food cans in the other, and a big mastiff-sized feeding bowl on the ground, cheery cherry red.

Needless to say, John is feeding stray cats.

(SOMEONE HAD TO START!)

[Maya Nevskaja] Winter is setting her talons into the city of Chicago.

It is no longer pleasant to stroll about after sundown but rather a test to survive the cooling wind and rain. It is not yet snowing, but given the mutinous cloud high above, obscuring much of the moon, it seems a given that the weather waits only for days before it begins.

The figure walking the streets of Cabrini-Green is not phased by the cold, if anything she would be one of the few that embraced the changing seasons, the ebb and flow of Gaia -- Maya was never one to question that which would never be understood but simply was. So, she enjoyed the sensation of the cold against her skin -- tanned now, time spent in the sun had given her color, though her hair remained quite black, long and uncombed. Something akin to a wraith, haunting the curbside.

Where she went, and why were mysteries best left unsolved.

There is a healing abrasion on her lower lip, the wound days old at best, and the Godi's knuckles are bruised, scratches decorating the skin. Still, for the most part, the passing months have not changed her. More tanned, perhaps, her hair grown long. In need of bathing, there would be little dispute.

It is the sound of her jewelry, that heralds her proximity to the kinsman. That, and the chorus of spitting felines mingling about his feet.

(I was TYPING!)

[Nessa] Tonight she walks in as much safety as she can manage, with her babies beside her. Furry babies, complete with fangs and muscles and thick black fur. Neither she nor the Alsatians are intact anymore, with their ears tattered and their coats scarred from fights, and her own hand maimed, missing two fingers on her left hand.
If she's married, she sure as hell isnt wearing a ring on the finger that's missing. Too bad too, cause she's less than two months from exploding into motherhood.
In this neighborhood, seeing a woman alone and pregnant isn't that unusual. In fact, maybe its pretty damned common, as she walks towards her home from the direction of the restaurant a few streets over. Every day, her uniform comign and going the same. White shirt doing nothing at all to hide her belly, black pants possibly capable of hiding at least a couple of women inside.
The scent of cheese and onions and cooked cornmeal product in the bag keeps the dogs in line-- until the scent of cats wafts towards them. Something else on the menu?

[J.B.] The cats are half-tame things at best; at worst, they were so feral you couldn't get near them without risking an eye, a finger, or at least your eardrums in the cacophony of spits and hisses that would result. That's how they were two weeks ago, anyway. After two weeks of steady nightly feedings, some have come close enough for the big kinsman to reach out and offer them morsels by hand. Once or twice, the more trusting ones even allowed him to gently scratch behind their nicked ears.

In fact, he was just holding out a chunk of something the can proclaimed to be lamb'n'rice toward a small, tortoiseshell cat when she suddenly arched her back, hissed, and turned and ran. In a matter of seconds the sidewalk is deserted, felines scattering every which way to disappear like ghosts into the shadows and the crevices of the night. One or two of them streak by Nessa and her dogs, pausing only to cast gleaming glares their way.

Barrister gets ruefully to his feet, flicking the morsel of cat food off his fingertips. "You're not much of a cat person, are you?" he asks of the raven-haired Godi, who was most certainly not a cat person.

[Maya Nevskaja] "Sorry," She begins, as the cats flee from such an unnatural creature, darting into alleyways and shadowy nooks to appraise her from a safer distance, eyes flashing distrust and resentment at losing their meal.

"It is instinct for them to run." She defends, though she sounds neither unduly sorry or defensive as her footsteps bring her what she deems a safe distance from John Barrister. Without even her feeblest attempts to coloring her eyes, the Godi appears pale, tired and dirty. Her shirt is torn, and the skin across her belly smeared with what looked suspiciously like dried blood.

The kinwoman across the street warrants her eye, a flare of her nostrils, like a horse tempted to rear back, but instead she lowers herself into a crouch, bracing a hand against the ground and returning her gaze to Barrister. "Are you not well, John Barrister," The foreigner attempting small talk, she seems an awkward conversationalist at the best of times.

[Nessa] Nessa's dogs are not precisely cat-anything either, as they spring into excited happy snapping at the fast food that runs their way. Nessa is nearly jerked off her feet, leaps --some-- and spins to pull them up short with shouts in mixed English and Russian at 'Moose' and 'Squirrel'.
Not a particularly peaceful scene, with leashes tangling and cats wrecking havoc on training and Nessa yelling, one more thing to draw attention to her tribal Breeding, as if Maya could not already tell.
One thing about the Russian kinfolk-- she's still apparently flexible.
The cats are definitely denizens of Cabrini, and continue not to give a damn.

[J.B.] "Me?" Puzzled. "I'm fine." Pause, delicate -- or what might have been delicate, did it not come from John Barrister with his bowling-ball shoulders, his everpresent five o'clock shadow, and his big hairy hands. "You look tired."

Which is a polite way to say: you look like shit.

Across the street, Nessa's German Shepherds explode into barking. J.B. calls across to her with the confident advice of a long-time dog owner, "Give 'em a sharp check on the leash and tell 'em NO."

[Maya Nevskaja] A smile stretches across her face, or what passes for a smile when you are, delicately put, feeling like shit. Her lips curve and bend, and she offers a soft sort of acknowledging sound -- more akin to a grunt than anything else. "I have been traveling for some time."

Courts the Storms Eye slides down to settle against the wall, only her eyes visible behind her nest of hair, glinting up at him like polished beads. There is something of the beast to this woman, even without knowledge of what she truly is beneath the skin. Something not dissimilar to his alley-cats, fed and clothed almost tamed but never quite without the inclination to bite, to return to the wild once more.

"I fear that I look, what is the word," She tilts her chin, wearily amused. "Crappy, da?"

[Nessa] Check on the leash. She does just that, just after her pale, plain face turns from John back to her dogs.
"NYET!" Close enough.
One, then the other. The wild barking cuts back as they get it through their fur-rooted brains that Cat is not their chew toy tonight. Not That cat, at least. Eventually, Nessa has only to untangle the wound-together leashes without losing more appendages in the process, as she does some sort of arcane little untwisting dance just right there on the cracked sidewalk, under the dim light.
Very poor stage.
The whole dance is accompanied by quite a fluent discussion of proper dog behavior in her native language, and none of the explanation allows for the tormenting of their human or the knocking of her over or the ripping of her arms out of their sockets, etc. It gets monotonous, but then, she's never been the most imaginative kinfolk ever, save for that recurring dream about being free.

Agnessa finally calls out to JB, when her tirade and the unwinding is over. "Thank you. Is helpful jerk." Her words compete with a window-shaking car stereo blasting through the so called peace of the night, and fainter music pouring out from an apartment with the windows open, too-sweet s smoke offered to the night. Brotherly love ala closet hydroponic garden.

[J.B.] Maybe this is his cue to offer a flattering denial. No, she looks fantastic. No, she could grace the cover of Vogue and Vanity Fair. No, he's never seen her look better.

"Yes." At least he smiles, wryly, to soften the blow. "You look rather crappy. You look like you could use a shower too, to be honest."

Meanwhile, Nessa is entangling herself in dog leashes. After watching for a few seconds, the gentleman in John Barrister can't take it anymore. He looks both ways and then trots across the street. "Here," he says, and "Give me that leash -- no -- yes, that." After some jumble of arms, leashes, and furry feet, John pulls Moose away from Squirrel and untangles 'his' leash before handing the looped end back to Nessa. He bends to the dogs, and when one stands six-four one has a long way to bend, even to large dogs like these. He gives their heads a rough, affectionate rub if they allow him, and then straightens up.

"Dogs are like kids," he explains, smiling. "You have to be stern sometimes, but you can't be cruel and you can't panic."

[Maya Nevskaja] The Get of Fenris is still lazing against the wall when J.B. leaves her to go tend to the fallen kin across the street. Ah, perhaps that was a presumption of the Godi, to think of her so. But the things she had heard, in passing and in person while living at the Eagles Kinhouse and her own instinctual feeling on the woman labeled her as something to be viewed with considerable suspicion.

Never-mind the baby in her stomach.

Eyes narrow, and she rises to her feet, cracking her neck and rolling tender muscles as she crosses the street in the hulking man's wake. To the stranger's eye, the Godi must appear -- must smell, surely -- like some homeless wanderer. But there is a certain manner in her walk, a confidence with which she puts herself into the woman's line of vision that suggests otherwise.

That, and very few others would deign to reach a hand to place against her swollen stomach with no preamble.

"Not far from birth." Maya's hand is warm against the skin, it prickles before she removes it.

[Nessa] The helpful stranger butts in and she couldn't be happier about it.
In fact, she's rather quiet and content watching him untangle leather from flesh. A gentle smile appears on her too-Shadowlord face, as the man bends down in front of her. On a chilly night like this, she can feel the heat radiating from him, he's so close.
Not bad, for an after work encounter.
When he finally straightens, she's got that endorphin smile going, radiates any number of naturally occuring airborne chemicals. "I will find out about kids soon enough, I think. Thank you. Is nice, you feed cats. They are too skinny. In fact, maybe I think most people are too skinny now." Oh yeah, her blood chemicals tells her that's a very funny joke, and her grin widens to beaming.
"I am Nessa." An offered hand. Dreamy eyes, as a second hand opens inside of her, presses outwards towards the stranger's voice.

[Nessa] Was a presumption, for she hasn't fallen. And instincts can be wrong. Sweet Nessa, kind and gentle and carrying a hell of a lot of knives here and there and with a werewolf's baby in her belly to protect.
However, her dogs like the helpful man just fine and he was talking to this street bum just a few moments before.
She tolerates the rudeness, raises an eyebrow at the rather obvious pronouncement, unaware of exactly how right Maya knows herself to be.
"Da. Not long." Tolerates, but her face tenses as the woman reaches out, one of Nessa's hands, the intact one, hovering near her waist, her gaze direct and firm against Maya. If the Russians-- maybe both Russians-- have met, Nessa does not seem to recall.

[J.B.] (fuck! no one told me i got bumped!)

[J.B.] (and ffs stop posting simultaneously!)

[Maya Nevskaja] (i got booted. :/ )

[J.B.] "John," replies the helpful stranger. He grips the offered hand solidly. He has a firm handshake, John, and his hands are big and wide, with coarse black hair on the back. In fact, he's fairly hairy all over, and though he must attempt to keep himself clean-shaven, by this time of night his jaw sports a heavy beard-shadow that takes more fortunate men days to grow.

Releasing her hand, he turns his attention back to her Shepherds. "Nice dogs. Both boys? I have a hound, myself. Blood- and coonhound mix. He's a mean one, though, not like these." And he gives the nearest dog another scuff on the head.

[Maya Nevskaja] They have not met. Not in the proper sense of the word, not with handshakes as she gets with John, with smiles and polite chit-chat.

Maya does not 'get' chit-chat, it isn't in her programming to toss her hair and smile like some women do, it isn't in her nature to want to participate in such a ritual -- it seems silly, frivolous. The Godi takes her hand with its bruised knuckles from the kinwoman's belly, she scrapes aside a layer of dark eyes to reveal a face that while feral at present, dusty and in need of severe scrubbing, is lovely. Well sculptured cheekbones, a regal set to her mouth, a fine, delicate neck.

Maya Nevskaja could be a beautiful woman.

Were it only for her qualities, such as the perfunctory throw away of her namesake toward the girl -- "I am Maya Nevskaja, you may call me so" -- and perhaps the way she outright stares at Nessa, there is no shielding of blatant interest here. Only raw consideration.

[Nessa] "Hmm. They used to be junkyard dogs, and fought in dog fight place too before i took them away from that." Nessa stares at her suddenly poodly cuddly black beasts with what might be a hint of disappointment. "Boy and girl. Is Moose and Squirrel." Unaware of the rhyme or in fact pretty much poetry in general, Nessa reaches out to pet one of Moose's torn ears.
One of the words doesnt seem to translate well. "Bloody coon hound?" She looks up at him and stares, as if he's just said something pretty damned awful, and she's trying really hard not to say anything.
His hand is furry. A man with a furry hand. First time to shake one of these in a non-crinos or glabros. Nessa peeks at his shadow, then jerks her gaze back to his eyes for a moment till she realizes she is being considered.
Rage low or high, Nessa's head turns to consider Maya right back, calm. Still takes a step back though, a cautious movement from a properly paranoid woman, murmuring, "Nessa."
Maya at least, is not so hairy, for all she's a true furry albeit a messy one just now. Similarly, Nessa has been working too, smells of that distinctly off-work waitress smell of dishwater, cleaner, many different foods and a light sweat, for those with particularly sensitive noses. And, of course, Shadows, though only Maya present could catch that part.
Her damaged hand raises, leashes in hand, to rest on her belly, the baby inside working on dropkicking his own mother, belly button first.

[J.B.] "Oh, no," John hastens to correct her. "Bloodhound/coonhound mix. A mutt?"

[Maya Nevskaja] Maya, it would appear, has tired of the conversation already. She turns her attention to the man of her blood standing beside her. Maybe that, or she's suddenly felt a month's worth of exhaustion and grime, seeping into every pore on her body.

Take your pick.

"John Barrister, may I use your shower?" If the question raises eyebrows, the Godi clearly does not care. And let's not put to delicate a point on the fact that of the three of them, only one could crush a skull with her teeth -- likely more the reason why she pays little heed to reaction.

[Nessa] If it were a Chocolate skull, now...
Nessa though, wild though her spirit is, does not appear in her current condition to be the soul of deadliness. She has no rage, could be potentially tossed into a basketball hoop with her current shape. Might not know she has feet still.
This Maya is very formal-- even Nessa can recognize that. Someone with worse English usage than herself? And with bloodstains? Hmm. Ok so there's danger, but Maya is Interesting now. This kin sort of perks and listens.

[J.B.] You might expect a man like John -- tall, gruff, polite, with the look of a man who works with his hands -- to be puzzled or scandalized or perhaps a little too delighted with such a request. He's nothing of the sort, though. He's lived too long amongst the trueborn Get of Fenris; knows too well their sudden requests and spartan needs. He glances at Maya, nods.

"Yeah, of course." A big square-palmed hand reaches almost automatically into the pocket of his faded denims, and then he remembers his pawn shop. "Just let me close up, ok? Nessa? Could I give you a lift somewhere?" After all, it's cold outside, and the streets were far from safe. And the woman was pregnant, for the love of god.

[Nessa] Here come the thoughts. Stranger, wants to give the woman a 'ride home'. Oh yeah. Sure he does. But her dogs like him. And he was helpful. And if he likes dogs, can he really be all that bad?
Oh yeah. Totally. Axe murderer waiting to get her home. But-- he works ((lives?)) around here.
Like that's a character reference or something.
Squirrel, that Bitch, decides her when the dog pushes up against John and demands more attention with an extortionist growl.
"Da, if is not trouble. I am not far though." Through a gang-ridden neighborhood. "Is appreciated."
This guy though has the ever-formal Maya dropping by for casual showers and John will be possibly joining her shortly. One can make certain assumptions then, right or no. Nessa glances to Maya for her reaction, not quite a permission request, but something.

[Maya Nevskaja] It may well have been the clumsiest attempt to harangue her way into the kinfolk's home that Nessa has ever born witness too. But, with the way the Godi is now observing her battered hands, turning them over and rubbing at the skin, it seems unlikely she has even considered the idea.

Any port in a storm, as long as their blood was your own.

A jerk of her chin is her response to John's request, and Maya's gaze, one dark eye focused upon Nessa studies the Shadowlord as surely as she studies the Godi. It is not uncommon knowledge that there is no close camaraderie existing between the two tribes.

Courts the Storms Eye has little reason to trust the girl; she has seen nothing likewise yet to hold against her. "You should take more care," her voice is low, a Russian's unsympathetic rasp. "You are an easy target to be walking alone at night."

[J.B.] "It's no problem," John replies to Nessa. Then he turns and crosses the street again at a trot. A man of his size could look awkward on the run, but John has a sort of innate, physical confidence. That, and the look of a man who ran five minute miles in his day, and hasn't quite gone to seed yet. The blood of Fenris, after all.

Across the street, the pawn shop's lights darken. The display cases are locked tight, the windows battened down, and a heavy folding iron gate lowered over the front windows. J.B. takes the time to check the locks a final time before going to fetch his car. A few minutes later, a behemoth of a king-cab Silverado rumbles up to the curb where the women (or rather, the woman and the Godi) stand. It's one of those enormous, gas-guzzling trucks with an engine displacement larger than the volume of a human body's blood supply, built as much for comfort as they were for utility. Barrister gets out and, coming around the passenger's side, pulls open both front and back doors to let them in.

"Probably best if we put the dogs in the back," he says, and goes to lower the tailgate.

[Nessa] This wisdom, she cannot deny. Her head nods utter and serious agreement, and black waves, set loose the second she left her workplace, fall forward, pointing away from her pale, plain face. "Next paycheck, i get car. Safer. Until then, I take dogs to work, and they wait for me in alley till I am done." One hand smooths Moose, who isn't all that happy about Maya, hasn't yet relaxed in the garou's presence.
Maya's been in a recent fight, and looks rather, from the living state of her, like she'd won. Blood, hands, messy face, then eyes. One last look over, and then the kin's chin dips in a tiny nod. "Perhaps next time, I hear about your fight, Maya Nevskaja." And that is the closest she's gonna come to voicing rabid curiosity just now, as Nessa takes her leave.
Over to the truck, to the metal behemoth which is probably single handedly draining the oil wells of Texas. She doesn't necessarily approve, but then Pawn Shop John might be using it to haul things for work. Still suspicious of it.
And of being separated from her dogs with a stranger.
AND of the sewer grate right over there, which she goes far around to avoid before circling back to the truck.
The dogs of course could care fuckign less, happy to go wherever the hell the stranger wants them to go, damn it. Nessa sighs, lets the dogs into the back as directed. He opens the door for her-- but she jumps into the truck herself, gymnast that she was. Is. Was--ish. Got some moves on her still, though it probably looks a bit odd now.
"Pawn shop. I have not been in yours before, I think." Ok, well she knows actually rather damned specifically, but she's being polite. What is your procedure for pawning things? Is complicated?"
Like... he wants proof she didnt steal it?

[J.B.] Once the dogs are loaded up, John gets into the driver's seat. The cab is big and spacious, well-appointed, all beige leather and new-car-smell. Newish, anyway. There's also a slight scent of dog inside, and a few short brownish hairs on the seats, the carpeting. It seems J.B. made an exception for letting his own dog ride in the cab.

The dashboard is loaded with bright displays, gauges, dials and screens. The GPS system welcomes him when he turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars back to life, though he ignores it utterly. When Nessa asks about his pawn shop, John Barrister's eyes crinkle in the rearview mirror.

"I don't run a very good one, I'm afraid. I'm not very ruthless about conning little old ladies out of their antique heirlooms and selling it at a grossly inflated price. I just like the stuff. You'd be amazed what people bring in to sell."

When Maya gets in and shuts her door, the smell of unwashed Godi joins the smells of new car, new leather, and hound-mutt. Barrister thumbs his window down a crack, letting a bit of the cold night air in to war with the heated air hissing quietly from the vents.

"So, directions, Nessa?"

[Maya Nevskaja] Nessa chatters on, climbing into the front passenger seat which leaves the Godi with the back, and the rear of one of her dogs, pressed against the window.

Maya climbs in, and swings shut the heavy door with ease. She is a smaller figure that is expected of her tribe, built for speed and not so much for brute strength, the Godi's true power lay in the hands that settled against the front seat, small, delicate devices of lethal power. Perhaps it was that she was such a paradox that some found Maya Nevskaja interesting.

She finds little reason to talk to either John or Nessa, but once or twice he will catch the Godi's eye in the rear view mirror and witness genuine amusement quirking her lips at Nessa's apparent interest in the life and times of John Barrister. "I like your store," she says quietly, finally, her gaze on the passing street, on the hint of moon that escapes the clever netting of cloud. "It is full of stories."

[Nessa] She offers the fastest way to get there, any number of streets over to the miniscule home she rents. "And is little tiny red boxy house, used to be ahh mustard bile color. But has place for my dogs, so.. I am there. And some neighbors are surprisingly not completely unpleasant."
Which is, after all, a very interesting way to describe certain people. Faint sad hint to her expression.
"I have pawned some things, before. I like you do not rip off of elderly women. Is good. " Her face turns towards the window, stares out at the night and the next words are maybe a touch diffident. "Is good here, in Cabrinii Green. Is not all rotten. Hidden. Needs cleaning, repair, paint. But is not all ruined. Some people is good. And places."

[Maya Nevskaja] (okay, I shall BRB! going to order some dinner.)

[J.B.] "Well," Barrister replies with an ironic tilt to his mouth, "I wouldn't go looking too hard for the good in the bad. Especially not at 2 in the morning."

It's a short drive to Agnessa's little cottage. John pulls up to her stairs and sets the handbrake, turning toward the kinwoman. Not that he would know her as such, yet. "It was nice to meet you," he says; a politeness, but one that he pulls off sincerely. "Have a good night."

[J.B.] (i'm probably heading to bed soonishly, myself :P)

[Nessa] This gets John and Maya a sudden bright grin. "Oh? People who give pregnant woman lift home? You think I should not look?" The question is for them both. Something gleeful starts up inside her besides the child.
Finding pleasant happy good sides in people. The ultimate Shadowlord rebellion. Gleeful and naughty grin.
"Yourselves too. Thank you both. Goodnight." Nessa takes time to free the vastly uncomfortable and suspicious Moose and his sweeter bitch from the truck, takes her meal and eyes the couple in the truck one last time.
No kidnappings, murder, finger eating OR sewer monsters! What a nice night!

[J.B.] When the door opens, the engine noise rumbles into the cabin. When Nessa shuts it again with her goodnight and thanks (John replying something about don't-mention-it), the sound insulation is impressive. The doors seal tightly and the engine noise is reduced to a low, smooth rumble.

Barrister watches Nessa let herself in. Then he glances into the rearview mirror, meeting the Godi's eyes in reflection for a beat before he lowers the emergency brake and pulls away from the curb.

"Was she kin?"

[Nessa] Round the house though the gate and to the back-- the kinfolk lets the dogs out for a frolic in there wild outdoor backyard and completely avoids the deathtrap of a porch.
The humming she begins is something terribly hopeful from John Lennon, should anyone be able to find her melody.
Which ispossibly doubtful.

[Breeze] (May I watch?)

[J.B.] (yep, though jacqui's VERY AFK and i'm heading to bed soon :P)

[J.B.] (...okay, i need to crash! dying! JB will let Maya borrow his shower and then give her a lift to wherever if she needs it. thanks for the scene, folks!)